At first I liked what he said. It warmed my heart to think of joy and sorrow as dependent on each other
as a bird’s wings. But almost instantly I felt a wave of resentment rise up in my throat. What did Rumi
know about suffering? As the son of an eminent
man and heir to a wealthy,
prominent family,
life had
always been good to him. I knew he had lost his first wife, but I didn’t believe he had ever experienced
real misfortune. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, raised in distinguished circles, tutored by the best
scholars, and always loved, pampered, and admired—how dare he preach on suffering?
With a sinking heart, I realized that the contrast between Rumi and me couldn’t be greater. Why was
God so unfair? To me He had given poverty, sickness, and misery. To Rumi riches, success, and wisdom.
With his flawless reputation and royal demeanor, he hardly belonged to this world, at least not to this city.
I had to cover my face if I didn’t want people to be revolted by the sight of me, while he shone in public
like a precious gem. I wondered how he would fare if he were in my shoes? Had it ever occurred to him
that even someone as perfect and privileged as he could someday tumble and fall? Had he ever
contemplated how it would feel to be an outcast, even for one day? Would he still be the great Rumi if he
had been given the life I was given?
With
each new question,
my resentment rose, sweeping away whatever admiration I might otherwise
have had for him. Bitter and petulant, I stood up and pushed my way out. Several people in the audience
eyed me curiously, wondering why I was leaving a sermon that so many others were dying to attend.